Pony

Flung out of orbit
at last we thought we’d live
like supernumeraries
as we pleased.

The gods that left us here
liked mirrored worlds and ice,
not the human world of
fires and tents and trees.

All that loud singing.

The galaxy they
wheeled away on
had vapor in it and
a voice that left behind
the muffled slap
our weary leather makes
as we go round the around,
the rag a little bully with a
whip made of our life when
no one was looking
the care-to-see.

But we do still love
the sound of water
waving in a metal pan,
our day’s allotment,
and the memory
of the sun we had.